


Tree of Life

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Prompt Fic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-02 14:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15798390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: “I’m kind of surprised you’re still here,” Stiles said. He’d half expected Derek to take off running. But there he was, sitting patiently in the driver’s seat, keeping an eye on the front door for any sign of the Sheriff.“I said I’d stay.”





	1. Chapter 1

Summer had just begun, and the tentative peace that had settled over Beacon Hills as the pack finished out Senior year was fading fast, not leaving them any afterglow to bask in. There was something out there attacking pigs. Which, to be fair, didn't sound like their kind of gig, but Stiles didn't have anything better to do with his time now that school was out, with several months until he left for college. He figured he'd check it out, on the off chance that it _was_ something they should be concerned with. It beat staying at home and being bored out of his mind over the coming weeks.

Stiles was disturbed to find out that the creature was so pleased with it's easy prey, that it only took a single bite out of each pig before moving on to the next, leaving a bloody trail of half-eaten bodies in its wake. And they weren't small bites either, Stiles noted, going over the case file with his dad, photos spread out over the desk between them. In fact, his dad wasn't convinced they _were_ bites. It looked more like someone had started hacking at the animals with an axe. _Or maybe a chainsaw_ , Stiles thought with a shudder of revulsion, feeling a bit queasy after his quick glance at the photos.

"I think we're looking at a plain, old, human here, Stiles. Just some sick individual giving into their more sadistic urges," his dad said. The sheriff thought Stiles was trying to say it was another animal that had done this, and he couldn't make himself correct his father.

"I dunno, dad. I mean, look at that, those are clearly teeth marks."

"Yeah, if the teeth were _twenty-six inches long."_ John gave Stiles a very pointed look, that Stiles very pointedly ignored.

Stiles scoffed, pulling the photos back towards him to get a better look at the pictures. His dad was, as usual, not seeing the bigger pictures here. Because come on, if werewolves and magic and who knows what else were real, then it only made sense that there could possibly be something with a maw full of twenty-six-inch teeth. Or hell, even longer. After everything he's seen the past few years, Stiles wasn't going to rule out the possibility.

"Don't suppose there's a way I could get a look at the bodies?" Stiles asked, lifting his attention to look up at his dad with his best angel face, smile sweet and eyelashes batting. His dad was unamused, arms crossed over his chest as he looked at Stiles with his patented Stern Sheriff Look. "Okay fine," Stiles said, shoulders up defensively. He worried his bottom lip, eyes scanning the photos. "I just really don't think a human did this." There was no way a human could move fast enough to slaughter fifteen pigs that way, across three different farms—all miles apart—without anyone noticing. It didn't add up. If nothing else, after two years of dealing with the supernatural, Stiles has learned that when things don't add up, it's because they're not natural. Something shifty was definitely going on, quite possibly in a literal sense.

"Well, until you have some proof for me, there's nothin' I can do here." John went to sit down and Stiles stood up, gathering the pictures back into the file and tossing it back on the desk. Before he could take so much as a step John was speaking up again with a grimace. "And please, God, do not take that as encouragement. Let me handle this. If it's not a person, then it's probably another mountain lion, and I don't want you getting hurt sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." Another pointedly look. Stiles smiled, hoping it didn't look as strained as it felt.

"Sure thing, pops. See you tonight," Stiles said with energy he didn't feel. He left the office quickly, hands stuffed in his pockets. His dad looked so tired, he just wanted to help. The sheriff was being run ragged by this case, everyone under the assumption that the killer was some kind of twisted human, like something out of _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. And a human that would do that to animals was very, _very_ close to escalating to human victims. They needed to be caught before that happened, or else they might end up with a spree killer on their hands. That was the last thing Beacon Hills needed, along with all the other supernatural bullshit going on around town. The population has already dropped so much since more creatures started coming to Beacon Hills, it was a wonder they hadn't had a mass exodus yet. The town was one more supernatural creature away from becoming another Roanoke.

Knowing his dad wouldn't get off work until late, Stiles drove over to the first farm that had been attacked, rather than going home. He was already lying to his dad about everything else, what was one more on his already heavy conscience?

The farm was a ways away, about half an hour outside of town. Stiles has had the drive memorized since he was six years old, going down to Mr. Rodgers' Farm every year for Halloween. The corn maze and haunted hayride were legendary in the town, and the food was always good. Like a town-wide potluck, everyone contributed their favorite harvest food. Folded tables piled high with old family recipes from all walks of life.

It was the oldest farm in Beacon Hills, and it definitely showed. Mr. Rodgers himself seemed like he'd been there a hundred years and he looked like it too—Stiles was part convinced he was some kind of supe to still be kicking around. He was a surly old man, but kind enough to put on Beacon Hills' finest haunted farm for the kids every year, and he also had inarguably the best pumpkins around. Stiles has been going to his pumpkin patch for as long as he can remember, practically grew up running through the orange rows. Then he got older, and being a teenager meant sneaking onto the property at night to mess around in the corn field with his friends in search of the red-eyed cornfield demons, only to be chased off laughing by good old Mr. Rogers with his old shotgun, ready to blast their backsides full of rock salt; non-fatal but an effective deterrent.

The corner of Stiles' mouth ticked up into a small smile as he drove through the old rickety gate to Mr. Rogers' property, beginning the slow drive up the gravel road to his house that had Roscoe complaining. He'd spent so many summers here, trying to catch sight of the ghosts that supposedly haunted the farm, giving the annual Haunted Hayride a touch of frightening reality. It never happened, though, even after Stiles was brought into the supernatural world. He was beginning to think that after everything else, ghosts really were just made up stories.

By the time Stiles reached the old house, Mr. Rogers was sitting on the porch, a jar o' clear in one hand and the other on the big dog sitting dutifully at his side. The giant beast had probably heard Stiles coming before he even got close and alerted his owner that he would soon have company.

"What're ya doin' here, boy?" Mr. Rogers asked once Stiles got out of his jeep and slammed the door closed. It was a familiar sight by now, first belonging to his mother and now him. Mr. Rogers has probably seen that busted up blue jeep for over thirty years now.

"Just came to say hey and see if you maybe need a hand with anything. I'm free for the summer, and I'm going off to college in the fall, so I figured I'd come around. Nostalgia and all that, you know? I'm gonna miss this place when I'm gone." Stiles rambled with his brightest smile, the shining picture of innocence. "And I heard you had a rough week out here, so I figured maybe some extra help fixing things up would be appreciated."

"Bah, don't give me none of that. What would yer daddy say if he knew you were here?" Stiles' smile turned sheepish. He scuffed the toe of his shoe in the gravel, looking down guiltily, and Mr. Rogers scoffed. "Uh-huh, that's what I thought. You run along now, Stiles, I don't want you startin' no trouble."

"Come _on_ , Mr. Rogers, you know me. When do I ever get into trouble?"

"Every time you drive up on my land," he said with a pointed glare of his senile old eyes. "I know that was you out here last weekend, making a ruckus out in the cornfield like you always do." Stiles held his hands up in surrender, grinning again.

"Fair. But come on, I just wanna know what happened yesterday. I've got a bet with my dad; twenty bucks on a werewolf." Mr. Rogers snorted, shook his head, then sighed, gesturing for Stiles to come up to the porch.

"Fine, I'll give ya a few minutes and tell ya what happened."

"Awesome! Thanks, Mr. Rogers," Stiles said, bounding up the steps, eager for anything more exciting than what's been going on for the past few months; a whole lot of _nothing._

"Yeah, yeah. And I can tell you right now you shouldn't a made that bet with yer daddy; ain't no way this was a werewolf," he said, leading Stiles inside. Stiles followed, curious about Mr. Rogers' tone as he spoke.

"Because they're not real…?"

"Mm," he hummed noncommittally, looking over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. _The man is definitely not a human,_ Stiles thought to himself, nodding resolutely. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking and an unwillingness to give up childhood fantasies; he was stubborn that way. "Have a seat in the dining room, it's about time I go bring in that sun tea."

Stiles made his way towards the kitchen/dining room, calling after Mr. Rogers with a grin. "You going to tell me how you make it yet?"

"You can bet your life I'm not," he called over his shoulder. "I'll guard this secret until the day I die!"

"Which will be fucking _never_ ," Stiles said under his breath, taking a seat at the dining table. He relaxed in the comfortable old chair, fidgeting with the edge of the crochet placemat in front of him. It had been lovingly crafted by the late Mrs. Rogers, and has been worn down through time and use, the delicate stitches worn thin as paper. It was amazing that they were still intact after so many years of use.

Mr. Rogers came in lugging a large glass container of amber sun tea, the recipe of which was supposedly a family secret going back generations. The man could make a fortune if he bottled it up and sold it, but he maintained the belief that it was for family and close friends only, not to be bought and sold like that "garbage Lipton pondwater". True to form, he poured two tall glasses for himself and Stiles, dropped in a few ice cubes and a lemon wedge in each, and joined Stiles at the table. The teen gratefully took the tea, still warm from basking in the sun all day, the ice slow to melt and cool it.

"One day, Mr. Rogers," he said after drinking some, sighing appreciatively. The old man laughed. 

"You keep telling yourself that, kid."

Stiles smiled down at his tea, setting it down on the table so he didn't chug it all in one go out of nerves. "So, what happened here the other day?" he asked, breaking the easygoing atmosphere. Mr. Rogers set his own tea aside with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair. His dog, Lola, seemed to come out of nowhere, putting her big head in his lap.

"To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure. I know that thing wasn't a person, though, I don't care what the cops say. No offense to your daddy, son, I know he's just trying to do his job."

"None taken. I don't think it was a human either. No person could do what this thing did as fast as it did."

"Smart boy. Now if only you could convince the good sheriff of that."

"That's what I'm here to do, sir. He told me to get proof, so," he gestured vaguely. "Here I am, gathering proof."

"Well there's not much I can tell ya, I'm afraid. It was late, when I woke up to the sound of my hogs squealing bloody murder." Mr. Rogers scrubbed a hand through his scraggly white beard thoughtfully, the way old men do, thinking back to the previous night. "I grabbed my gun and ran out, but the thing was already running off, and six of my pigs were layin' dead on the ground."

"What did it look like?" Stiles asked, arms braced on the table as he leaned forward.

"Big. And I mean _big._ It towered over my tractor by a good few yards." His tractor was a hundred-year-old Waterloo Boy—God knows how the thing was still running, it's glory days long over—and something even bigger than that was… intimidating, to say the least.

"What else? Did it run on two legs? four? more?"

"Four, definitely four. And it didn't really run, so much as it lumbered. Like it could barely carry itself on it's legs. And no wonder, the thing was fatter than a prized cow." The man trailed off, picking up his glass of tea to take a sip. When he set it back down, he was scowling deeply, the age lines on his face more pronounced. "Even stranger, though, was when I shot it, the thing didn't even react. Not one bit. I might as well have been throwing a bucket of flowers at the thing for all the attention it payed me."

"I don't suppose you got a look at it's face? Or head in general?" Stiles asked hopefully. Any distinguishable features would make it easier for him to track down the creature in the handful of bestiaries he's managed to gather over the last two and a half years.

"'Fraid not, son. It was too dark for me to really make out anything other than its size, what with the moon barely being out and all," Mr. Rogers said regretfully, idly patting Lola's head. The steel blue pitbull gave a low grumble, as if acknowledging her master's story as correct.

Stiles sat back in his chair and thought about it, slowly drinking his tea. "What do you think could even be that big?" he asked out loud, tapping the side of his glass rhythmically. The ice in it melted faster than it should, and the tea warmed in his hands with the aid of a little magic, before he finished it off; he's always preferred it to be sun-warm.

"I dunno, son. Nothing I ever seen or heard of. And I've seen and heard a lot." Stiles nodded, wondering if Mr. Rogers had ever seen or heard the werewolves. If he knew about them. He wouldn't be surprised; Mr. Rogers may be a senile old man, but he saw more than anyone gave him credit for.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Rogers. And for the tea. It was really good."

"Always is," he said proudly. "You're welcome to stay a while. Have another glass, tell me what you'll be up to now that you're all grown up."

"I can hardly refuse an offer like that," Stiles said, getting up to refill their glasses and taking a second to drop another lemon wedge in his, this time free of ice.

***

Stiles stayed at the farm for another few hours, catching up with Mr. Rogers and telling him about what's been going on in town; the non-supernatural side of things, anyway. They hadn't gotten a chance to talk much last Halloween, Stiles getting called away to deal with a coven of witches that were intent on raising an army of demons while the veil was thinnest. It was disappointing and not at all how he wanted to spend his most sacred day of October thirty-first, but he got two spell books out of it once they were stripped of magic and memory, as well as a whole stash of supplies he'd raided from their hideout, so he couldn't really complain.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, Stiles had gotten Mr. Rogers to let him help out quite a bit around the farm. He wasn't lying when he said he would miss this place; it had always been such a big part of his life, his mother bringing him and his father here for as long as he can remember. There was something magical about getting lost in the cornfield at night, with nothing but the stars ahead to guide him, and only the moon to light the way. Or walking through the little orchard with his parents to pick the biggest, reddest apples. Or picking only the most perfect pumpkin to carve every Halloween. Mr. Rogers always invited them to have first pick, a full week before opening the pumpkin patch to the rest of the town.

He repaired the tractor that's been acting up—the thing was one-hundred and three years old, it was bound to have some issues—with the help of a little duct tape and magic, the same way he fixed up his jeep. He fixed a chunk of the fence that was rotting through, as well as the pig pens that were destroyed by what Stiles was going to call the Beast for now. He also got some of the smaller chores out of the way, milking the three cows because he knew it must be hard on Mr. Rogers back, and, since he was alone, using his magic to muck out the stalls as well.

Mr. Rogers paid him in as many glasses of tea as he could drink—seven, the drive home was going to be _hell,_ because bladders were inconvenient like that—and by the time he was finished with everything, he was sweaty, dirty, and night was falling.

"Better get yourself home, son. Wouldn't want to be caught out alone after dark, especially not with that thing running rampant," he said, a light in his eyes that had nothing to do with the setting sun.

Stiles squinted up at him, leaning against the porch rails, wondering if this had been Mr. Rogers' plan all along. Keep Stiles occupied until sundown, that way he would have no choice but to go home, rather than visiting the other farms that had been attacked. If it was, then it was an effective plan and one hundred percent worked, and Stiles wouldn't go back and change a thing. It was fun getting to hang out and pretend he was a country boy for a few hours. Even if he knew that his muscles were going to be killing him the next morning, not used to quite that level of physical work. Sure, he's gotten stronger since sophomore year, what with running for his life being an almost weekly occurrence, but still.

"Alright. Thanks for the tea, Mr. Rogers."

"Anytime, Stiles. You make sure you come by this Halloween if you come back."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Stiles said. Mr. Rogers sent him on his way with a clap on the back, sixteen ounces worth of tea divided into four mason jars, and a promise to have more waiting for him in October—but not the recipe so he could make his own while he was away, of course. Incentive to make sure Stiles remembered to come home to see his dad.

 Stiles clamored into his rickety jeep smelling like clean sweat and dirt and already dreaming of a long, hot shower as he started up Roscoe, threw it into drive, and began the long drive down Mr. Rogers property. The only sound came from his tires crunching over the gravel road, and the crickets starting to come out for the night.

Stiles rolled down the window to listen, smiling at their song and breathing in the fresh summer evening air. Nothing could compare to the California country, especially in summer. It may get hot as balls, but there was magic in the air; Stiles could feel it with every breath he took. The crickets' song and the sound of the gentle breeze stirring the trees, filtering through the leaves, and the chirping birds settling down for the night giving way to owls was like a spell, entrancing. If Stiles listened closely, it was almost like he could hear the earthworms in the ground, the insects in the trees, caterpillars inching along tree branches and the fluttering wings of butterflies and moths. It made him remember his mom telling him just how easy it would be to get lost in the earth, if only you would just sit and listen to what she had to say.

After a few minutes Stiles was finally on the main highway leading back into town, silhouetted by the setting sun in his review mirror.

 

By the time Stiles got back home, his dad's cruiser was surprisingly parked in the driveway. He parked beside it, silently cursing the way his jeep sputtered and groaned to a stop, hoping against hope that his dad was already asleep. It was only seven thirty-six, so Stiles doubted it. He made sure to be extra quiet as he grabbed his things and crept inside, only to turn around and just about inhale the ring of keys he was holding between his teeth.

"Jesus dad! We've talked about this, no lurking after five!"

"I'm not lurking, Stiles. I'm siting, in plain sight, minding my own business," John said with a judgmental look. "You're the one acting like you're up to something."

"I am _not._ Don't give me those eyebrows. God, are you taking lessons from Derek or something?"

"Where were you, Stiles."

"Yup, definitely been hanging around Derek too much." Stiles made his way into the kitchen with an armful of jars, and started putting them into the fridge. "See, inflection is a thing, a really, really good thing—"

"Were you out at Mr. Rogers' ranch?" Stiles whipped around to look at his father, eyes wide, fridge door snapping shut behind him. He dad was looking at him unimpressed, sighing because he already knew what Stiles' answer would be from the guilty way he was acting.

"Did you put a tail on me or something? It was Parrish, wasn't it? I bet it was."

"Or, it was just an educated guess based on the fact that you always do the complete opposite of what I tell you?"

"Not always…"

"Yes, always."

"In my defense, I was just there for the tea. Helped out around the farm for a few hours, as you can see by how _disgusting_ I am right now. That kind of thing, you know, since I won't be able to do that for a while pretty soon."

"And you didn't ask him a single question about what attacked his farm?" John asked doubtfully.

Stiles grinned guiltily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe a few… but come on! I'm curious! If you really didn't want me asking questions, you shouldn't have let me leave." Check and mate.

"Next time I oughta put you in cuffs and throw your ass in a cell," John threatened half-heartedly. Stiles snorted, knowing his dad wasn't serious, or that would have happened long before now, and went to take a seat across from his dad.

"Mr. Rogers agrees with me that it couldn't have been a person," he said slowly, picking at a scratch in the wood.

"We've been over this, Stiles. There's nothing else it could have been. We don't have bears out here, and that's just about the only thing fitting Mr. Rogers description of what attacked his farm." He sighed again and rubbed his eyes, looking like he needed a stiff drink. "The man's getting old. Hell, he's practically as old as Beacon Hills itself; his eyesight isn't what it used to be. And it was dark, and there are a dozen other contributing factors."

Looking at his weary father, Stiles wished for the millionth time that he could tell his dad that a bear wasn't the only thing this could be. That there was so much more out there than he knew about. Werewolves and Kanimas and Berserkers and thousands of other creatures, any one of which could be behind the attacks.

There's been dozens of times over the last two years where Stiles almost fessed up. The murders with Jackson and Matt. Lydia disappearing for three days. Just about every time a new threat came to Beacon Hills and started killing people, and he had to watch his dad try to solve a puzzle that was missing half the pieces. But every time he tried to say it, the words stuck in his throat. Stiles remembered his mother, and how her involvement with the supernatural had ultimately lead to her death, and he couldn't make himself say the words. Because if the supernatural was real, if magic was real, then surely it could have saved his mom. Surely he and his father wouldn't have had to live through the pain of losing her, of living without her.

So rather than tell his dad, Stiles outfitted him with the best protection spells and charms and wards he could manage. His badge was enchanted, since he never went anywhere without it, and there was a talisman hidden under the seat of his car. Little things. Stiles wished he could do more, but without formal training, there really wasn't a lot he could do. His knowledge was sporadic, bits and pieces gathered from Peter, from spell books that Lydia had helped him to decipher as much as she was able. Scraps torn from pages as he snuck around coven lairs, and spells he overheard Deaton mentioning. And then there were the hundreds of "spells" he'd found on line, methodically going through every single one, trying and failing and failing and failing. Only a handful have worked so far.

With his father unwilling to talk anymore about the case, Stiles went upstairs to finally get cleaned off, stripping down and getting under the hot spray of his shower. He scrubbed himself down absentmindedly, his attention focused on the bare-bones description Mr. Rogers had given him. In his mind, he was imagining something almost like Peter's alpha form, big and lumbering. Stiles lathered soap through his hair and tried to work out what the thing could look like based on what it had done to the animals. Like his dad mentioned, it's teeth would have to be long, meaning a very big mouth. So it's head would have to be a pretty good size, with a body to match. Predators typically didn't have long necks, which would account for Mr. Rogers saying it looked like a big black shape. It was probably boxy, then. Maybe with short legs; that would cause it to lumber, as he put it, rather than run.

All in all, it was shaping up to be a pretty terrifying mental image. Even if Stiles was totally wrong, the teeth alone would have him running for the hills. If he was a sane person, that is. Which he clearly wasn't since he was actively trying to track this thing down. On top of that he was doing it alone, having not yet alerted his pack to what was going on around the outskirts of Beacon Hills; he didn't want to worry them until he knew for sure, and had undeniable proof, that something was going on. They all deserved a break from Beacon Hills and all its drama.

"Can't I get a break for just one summer?" he asked the ceiling, half-serious. As if in answer, he heard a deafening roar that shook him to his bones, ice filling his veins. Stiles was already turning off the water and reaching for a towel before the sound stopped. "Please, God, let that just be Derek," he pleaded as he ran to go get dressed.

***

Stiles ran downstairs—it was a miracle he didn't break his neck when he tripped on the last step—wearing damp clothes and still dripping water from his brief shower. His dad leaned through the doorway with one eyebrow raised when he heard Stiles yelp and the sound of him crashing against the wall to keep from falling fully.

"I'm fine!" he called, despite his dad only being a few yards away. "Man, that was one hell of a sonic boom or something. Anyway, Scott just called, so I'm gonna go head over, kick off summer officially with some all-night gaming. I'll see you tomorrow!" Stiles left without giving his dad a second to reply—it was the best course of action when he knew he was about to go get himself into trouble—John just shaking his head at his son's antics. Of course, the sheriff had no idea that that unearthly sound had come from an actual, living creature. Why would he suspect that? There was nothing in California that could make a noise like that.

 

Stiles' house was right by the preserve, but the sound had originated farther than he wanted to walk. He fired up his jeep and dropped a needle in the jar of water he kept in Roscoe for this exact purpose—the thin piece of metal stayed at the top of the water, a minor tracking charm—keeping one eye on the road and one eye on the jar as he drove. The further down the road he went, the more the needle shifted, and it had nothing to do with the rough ride. When the needle finally pointed perpendicular to the preserve, Stiles had to pull over and get out, locking up Roscoe before making his way into the dark preserve, jar of water in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

By now, he was accustomed to nightly trips into the woods. Hell, it had been a weekly occurrence before his mom had died, the two of them taking walks through the trees together while John worked late shifts at the station. But that was before he knew what kinds of deadly creatures lurked out there. After hearing the loud roar, Stiles was careful as he made his way through the trees and over thick roots, the limbs seeming to reach out to him like something out of a sinister fairy tale.

The preserve was eerily quiet, now. Like everything inside was waiting with baited breath, searching for the source of the roar. Stiles almost didn't want to breath, for fear of disturbing the silence, and what that may cause. He could _feel_ the tension in the trees, and it made him apprehensive. With as much time as he had spent out here, he's never heard it sound so quiet. There wasn't a single bird chirping. There was no breeze to dampen the hot summer air, making his clothes stick to his skin with sweat. Even the leaves crunching under his feet sounded muted. The preserve was a tense whisper around him. 

Stiles watched as the pin slowly swayed, pointing from one end to the other, then moving back, like the end of a pendulum. It was sensing something, or else it would have just falling to the bottom of the jar and lain there.

"Come on, where is it?" Stiles asked under his breath, barely above a whisper, giving the jar a shake. The pin didn't move as the water rose around it, frozen in space. Stiles stopped walking abruptly as he finally heard a sound; slow, heavy breathing, huffing loudly. Beginning to think he should have brought a member of the pack with him, Stiles swallowed thickly. He willed his heart to be steady, not knowing if whatever he heard could hear his heartbeat like the wolves or not.

Carefully, Stiles clicked off his flashlight and took several steps to the side, pressing himself against the wide base of a tree. He willed himself to be invisible to the creature that was steadily lumbering closer, its breaths becoming louder, rustling leaves as it gusted over the ground, until Stiles swore he could feel the hot breath on his neck. He tried to move farther around the tree, the sound of his clothes scraping against the bark, too loud in the silence of the woods. 

It was almost a full, agonizing minute before Stiles caught a glimpse of the creature, even bigger than he'd imagined it to be. Well over twelve feet tall, it looked like it could fell trees with ease. It's claws alone were thicker than Stiles' arms, narrowing down to razor points that dug into the ground, leaving deep furrows in the dirt.

His breath hitched as the creature turned its big head, movement slow, to look around the tree Stiles was hiding behind. Stiles clamped a hand over his mouth and didn't breathe, trying to disappear into the tree in hoped of not being seen. He really didn't want to die tonight, savaged like those pigs had been. He could feel the creature breathing on his elbow, breath hot and putrid, the scent of decaying flesh and fresh blood clinging to Stiles from it.

The creature must have been satisfied with whatever it found—or rather, didn't find—because it turned back around and continued on its way, each step shaking the ground with tremors. Stiles still didn't breathe, not until the creature was far out of sight and his lungs were aching and his vision was spotting. Only then did he collapse to his knees with heaving breaths. He dug his fingers into the soft dirt, trying to ground himself against the budding panic attack.

He needed to find Derek and tell him about this. Just as soon as he could breathe again.

***

Despite the fact that it felt so much later, it was only just past 8:30pm when Stiles was driving up on Derek's building. It had taken him a good half an hour to get back out of the preserve, barely able to breathe as his eyes searched the darkness for any sign of the creature, his senses on high alert. He could feel his magic crackling in his veins like static electricity, ready to be used at a moments notice. Being so high-strung and borderline hyperventilating, jumping at every shadow and breaking branch, meant it was a _stressful_ hike back to his jeep. He couldn't get out of there fast enough, tearing down the road without regard to how loud his tires screeched over the asphalt, eager to get as far away from the preserve as he could.

Now, parking his jeep in the gravel parking lot with plenty of distance between himself and the Preserve, Stiles felt like he was finally starting to be able to breathe normally again. A good thing, too, because he likely wouldn't have been able to go much longer without passing out. Stiles waited in Roscoe for a minute, taking a few deep breaths until his heart stopped pounding and his hands stopped shaking, not wanting Derek to panic at the sound of his rapid heartrate as he walked up the many stairs to his loft. Only when he was suitably calm did Stiles finally get out and begin the long walk.

Derek wasn't there. Luckily, opening locks was one of the first things Stiles had learned to do, so it only took a matter of seconds for him to get into the sparsely furnished loft. The pack had managed to get Derek to spring for a little more furniture, at least, finally. Enough to seat all of them, which resulted in a grouping of mismatched chairs and couches for everyone to pile into around the coffee table. Lydia scoffed every time she saw it, and Derek growled right back, unwilling to let her get her finely manicured claws into anything that might involve the words "interior decorating". The stubborn alpha claimed to be perfectly content with the way his loft was.

The sad thing was, Stiles believed him. Compared to the burned-out remains of his home and the filthy, abandoned train car Derek had once occupied, this place was practically a mansion. It may be spartan, but at least it was clean, and it was very much _Derek._ And it did have some personal touches, small though they were—aside from all the damage due to fights, that is. He had a few bookcases along one wall, completely filled with old tomes he'd managed to salvage from his childhood home. The kitchen was pretty modern, one of the few places Derek had done an update on. Little things like that. But most of all, the loft smelled like a den. Like _pack,_ beneath all the dust _,_ something Derek hadn't had for a long time. Stiles knew that the scent of pack permeating the wood and concrete was more important to Derek than drapes and rugs.

Which is why he felt bad about how he was probably stinking the place up with stress and anxiety. Hardly the most peaceful scents, but he figured the situation warranted it.

With nothing better to do, Stiles sat down on the blue velvet couch and waited, fidgeting, and tried not to think about the giant monster currently roaming Beacon Hills unchecked.

And why Derek wasn't home.

And oh God, what if he'd heard the roar, too? What if he went to investigate? What if something had _happened to him_?

No. If Derek was in trouble, he would have called. He would have roared for his pack to come to his aid. He would have sent a god damn text.

Stiles stamped down the growing panic once more, counting his breaths, and reminding himself that Derek wasn't the self-sacrificing martyr he used to be. He was probably just out for a run, or getting groceries, or something else equally mundane and not at all dangerous.

Yeah.

Totally.

 

At some point, Stiles fell asleep sprawled out on the couch. He didn't know how he managed that, being the bundle of nerves he was. Maybe it was because he was in his alpha's den, a place where he knew he was safe.

When he woke up, he'd been moved to the bed in the corner, and _wow,_ it must say a lot that he didn't even wake up enough to register being moved. He must have been more exhausted than he realized. Not surprising, really. Between being stressed out, literally _just_ finishing a week of finals the day before yesterday, and running around with his magic on klaxon-blaring high-alert which always took a lot out of him whether he used the magic or not, it was bound to happen eventually.

"You're awake," came Derek's gruff voice from the staircase across the loft, just about scaring Stiles out of his skin, and more importantly, out of the bed. He landed hard on the cement floor, catching himself unintentionally with his elbow. There was a stretch of seconds where his eyes watered and he didn't breathe, just working through the pain. It was enough that he temporarily forgot why he was there in the first place.

"What are you doing here, Stiles?" Derek asked when Stiles finally stood, his dignity bruised. The teen brushed himself off and tried to affect a nonchalant appearance, stuffing his hands in his pockets and sauntering over.

"Oh, y'know, just thought I'd come drop by and see how my fearsome alpha is doing. Make sure you haven't gotten eaten by anything. Anything that may be about twelve feet tall, super long teeth, really ugly?" he said, pitch rising as Derek glowered at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What happened?"

"I was helping my dad with a case," Stiles said, shoulders drooping. "Something's been attacking farms outside Beacon Hills. Doesn't sound like our kind of thing, I know, but I just had a _feeling."_

Derek sighed. "Short version, Stiles. It's late and I'm tired."

"What time is it?"

"1:30am. Talk faster."

"Damn. Right. Okay. So basically, did you hear that really loud roar a while ago?"

"Yes. I went to go find whatever made it, but I couldn't find anything."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure I did. It _breathed_ on me, man." Stiles blanched, already pale features going bone-white. With only the starlight filtering in through the big industrial windows to Sties' right, he looked washed out. Ghost like. "I thought it was going to eat me." Derek was suddenly looking much more awake and alert, stepping towards Stiles.

"What happened? Did it hurt you?"

Stiles tried batting Derek away, but the wolf was determined to pat him down in search of injuries, regardless of the fact that he would smell if Stiles was hurt. The scent of pain and blood was impossible to mask to someone who had been surrounded by it for most of his life. As it stood, Stiles was just thoroughly freaked out. When Derek finally released him, Stiles crossed his arms to hide his trembling hands, hoping Derek hadn't noticed. Just talking about the thing was making his heart pound fast again.

"It was _terrifying._ I thought I was going to die." He said the last part quietly, voice choked. Soft enough that Derek's expression lost some of its sternness. Then the alpha was guiding Stiles into the kitchen and having him sit down at the bar. Stiles watched curiously as Derek started taking some things out, one of those things being a bar of chocolate; a dog joke was on the tip of his tongue, a desperate attempt to laugh off his fear. He was kept silent by the incongruous sight of Derek making hot chocolate, watching the wolf take out a saucepan and start heating up milk on the stove.

Neither of them spoke as Derek worked, the weight of Stiles' words weighing heavily between them. He had come close to dying tonight, closer than either of them had realized until now, sitting in silence.

Of course, near death experiences were a common occurrence—and for Stiles in particular, being human and lacking the ability to heal—but before he'd always had the backing of the pack. Tonight, none of them had even realized just how close Stiles had been to danger. It was an oversight Derek didn't take lightly. Stiles could see the tension in Derek's shoulders as the wolf kept his back to him, head bowed and one hand gripping the counter so tight that Stiles feared for the integrity of the marble. He was surprised when it didn't crumble to dust under Derek's white-knuckled grip.

Several minutes later, Derek was turning off the stove and pouring the hot chocolate into a mug. He finally turned to Stiles, handed him the steaming drink, and leaned forward on the bar across from him. "What did it look like?" he asked, business like, revealing nothing. Stiles was both impressed and frustrated at Derek's ability to hide his emotions so well—right now, he just wished he could do the same, not wanting Derek to see just how affected he was by his crossing with the creature.

Stiles took a sip of the hot chocolate after a soft 'thank you', focusing on the smooth taste rather than the fear he felt just thinking about the creature. Surprisingly, the drink did help to calm his nerves, at least a little bit. He filed that information away for later and looked up at Derek, sitting straighter. Now was not the time to be afraid; they needed to figure out what they were up against and kill it before it started killing people.

"I didn't really get a good look at it. It was dark, and I was behind a tree trying not to be seen. But it was big. Really, really big. The kind of big that means its claws were about the size of my arms."

Derek frowned. "That's concerning."

"Ya think?" He snorted, shaking his head at Derek's calm tone. He should have _seen_ it. Then maybe he would understand why Stiles still felt like he had his heart in his throat. "It made me think of Peter, actually. Back when he was an alpha. Only about twice the size."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"Yeah. Uh, when I was hiding behind the tree, it stood right next to me. It had to have known I was there, I mean it was close enough to breathe on me. Literally. But for some reason, it just turned and left."

"Maybe it had something more important to do. I think you should check with your dad in the morning, see if anything's happened that it could have done."

Stiles sighed, looking down at his hands. "It likes pigs, apparently. If it keeps going at this rate, pretty soon Beacon Hills isn't gonna have any more bacon," he said with half-hearted humor. When he looked back up at Derek, the wolf was staring at him with his head tilted, scowling. "How long do you think it will take before it moves onto humans after that?" Stiles clarified.

"We'll stop this thing before it gets to that point," Derek said, probably trying to come off reassuring but being less than successful.

"Do you think we can? I mean, you weren't there, Derek. This thing is… it's bigger than anything else we've ever faced." By this point, there wasn't a lot that really, truly scared Stiles. He'd seen it all, or at least almost. But there was something about this particular creature that had every instinct in him sounding off alarm bells, telling him to get his pack and get the fuck _out._ While they still had a chance. Stiles was still pretty new to the whole magic and supernatural thing, but he knew enough to trust his instincts, because more often than not, they were right.

"We'll get it, Stiles, we always do." The way he said it, it sounded like a promise. Like Derek would do everything he could to keep it. It didn't do much to assuage Stiles' growing sense of foreboding, however. As much faith as Stiles had in the alpha, he wasn't so sure they could do this. "You should go home, get some rest. I have a feeling it's going to be a long week."

"Yeah…" Stiles looked down at the butcher's block bar top, scratching his nail against one of the many indentation in the wood. There was no telling what had made it; werewolves claws from a too-excited pack member or an enemy during a fight. Or maybe it had already been like that before Derek bought the building, character added from years of use. "Would it be okay if I crashed here tonight?" Stiles asked hopefully. A year ago, Stiles would have been making up some flimsy excuse for why he couldn't go home. Too tired and freaked out to drive, didn't want to wake his dad up with how loud his jeep was, and countless other things that wouldn't hold up under scrutiny. Now, Stiles just let the question hang, knowing the alpha well enough by now to know he wouldn't deny him. It was progress, Derek starting to open himself up to the pack, rather than push them away. He'd really shaped up into a good alpha in the last two years, even if he did have a ways to go still.

"Sure. I'll get you something to sleep in."

"Thanks," Stiles said, his shoulders drooping in relief. He watched Derek go to the spiral staircase, finishing his hot chocolate while he waited for the alpha to return.

"Your dad still doesn't know, does he?" Derek asked by way of greeting when he came back, startling Stiles as he finished washing the few dishes Derek had made.

"What makes you say that?" he hedged, drying off his hands with a dishtowel.

"When I mentioned him before, your heart jumped. Why haven't you told him?"

"I don't know," Stiles shrugged. Derek have him a look that very clearly said 'don't lie to a werewolf, it's rude', and Stiles sighed. "Because of my mom," he said. "I know I got my spark from her, and if my dad found out about it, about everything, it would crush him, y'know? It would be like finding out that someone could have saved her, but chose not to. And he's finally happy again. We can _talk_ about her again, without one of us crying, and I just… I don't want to put him through losing her again. It was a hard few years the first time around." Hell, it had been heartbreaking when Stiles found out about magic and the supernatural. Now, he knew that nothing could have saved his mom. But it took weeks, and many conversations with Deaton, before he was finally able to accept that. He knew it would be even harder for John.

Stiles finally had his dad back. He didn't want to lose him again. Even if it meant keeping such a big part of his life, of himself, a secret.

"He would be safer if he knew," Derek said gently. "He would know what's going on in Beacon Hills. He wouldn't blame himself for not being able to solve his cases. He would probably be more willing to let you help him." Between Stiles' knowledge of the supernatural, and John's place in law enforcement, they could close the cases together much faster, and with fewer casualties. But that was the logic side of things, and both of them knew that emotions were rarely logical.

"You think I don't know that?" Stiles laughed humorlessly, a part of him feeling like he was going to cry. "I _want_ to tell him. Every day. Every time I see a case cross his desk that I _know_ he'll never solve, because I know it's something supernatural causing it. Every time I have to make up some excuse for where I'm going so that he doesn't worry, when really, I'm running out to fight some new monster, and that there's a chance I might not come back home. Every time I have to watch him walk out the front door in his uniform for another shift, knowing just what's out there and that he can't protect himself—" Stiles cut himself off, his breath hitching at the thought of his father being killed, all because he couldn't bring himself to tell him what was really happening in his town.

Derek looked like he didn't know what to do with the distraught teen in front of him. He wasn't good at dealing with his own emotions, let alone someone else's, and he was even worse at comforting people. Was at a loss every time he had to try, feeling like he would just make things worse. And Stiles was human. He couldn't be calmed by Derek's scent and presence like his betas.

Derek dropped the pile of clothes he brought on the table and pulled Stiles into a hug. It was stiff, and awkward, and somehow perfect. After a few seconds of surprise, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's middle and dropped his head onto Derek's shoulder, closing his eyes and just trying to breathe.

Eventually Derek relaxed too; it's always been easier with Stiles, with how he equated the teen's touch with safety, after how many times Stiles has saved his life. He subtly sniffed Stiles, pleased that his scent was slowly becoming more content, filled with the ever-present ozone of his magic. It was stronger than usual, clinging to his skin and hair like heavy cologne. He smelled like a storm.

The pack bond pulsed between them, a constant anchor. Stiles focused on that, sinking more heavily into Derek's embrace, feeling suddenly so tired. The few hours he'd gotten before waking up here weren't sufficient.

"I want to tell him," Stiles repeated into the fabric of Derek's soft shirt. He breathed deeply, Derek's scent replacing the muggy smell of the forest and the creature's breath. "I just don't know how." Every time he tried, he couldn't make the words work. He was always afraid of what his father's reaction would be, not wanting to be pushed away if it was bad. More than anything, he didn't want to lose his dad again.

"It's okay, Stiles. You don't have to," Derek said. Even though it would make everything so much easier if the sheriff knew. Stiles wouldn't have to keep lying to his father about this world he had become a part of for the last two, almost three years. Derek wasn't blind, he saw the toll it took on Stiles. There were some days where he would be so soul-weary, drawn into himself, his jokes hollow and his grins brittle. Derek could feel him through the bond, and some nights, it was a fight that took everything in Derek not to go to him, to do _something._ Derek didn't know what that something would be; forcing Stiles to tell his father the truth or trying to comfort him like now. Anything to not have to feel the teen's despair, a constant presence in their pack bond.

"God, man, I am so sorry. I'm just a mess today," Stiles said after a few minutes, finally—reluctantly—forcing himself to pull away. He rubbed at his eyes, laughing, before picking up the t-shirt and sweats from the bar. "Thanks for dealing with me and letting me crash here, and everything."

"Yeah," Derek said in an odd tone, looking at Stiles strangely. "Get some sleep, we'll deal with Beacon Hills' latest threat in the morning."

"Yay." Stiles saluted Derek before heading off to the bathroom to change, while Derek went back upstairs to turn in for the night.

When Stiles got back into the bed in the corner of the loft, he stared out at the sky rather than trying to sleep, wondering if Derek could hear that he was still awake. He knew the wolf was accustomed to sleeping alone, and he hoped that the sound of his heart didn't keep him up.

Outside, the moon was just barely visible, a thin sliver of silver in the sky. Tomorrow night would be a new moon, with only the stars to serve as light. It was Stiles’ least favorite night. He wondered if the wolves felt the same as he did; disconnected, untethered, like he was adrift at sea. Or maybe the phases of the moon didn’t affect them so strongly, not like the full moon did. Maybe they’d learned to ignore it. Stiles never has, every new moon night serving to cause him great anxiety, his magic crackling in his veins, defensive. Morell called it hypervigilance, his magic anticipating threats to come from every direction. Like it was blind, stumbling in the dark, only able to see when the moon was there to light the way.

Stiles fell asleep to the tempo of his own beating heart, hoping that it would continue to beat once this was all said and done.

***

The sun was warm on Stiles' face the next morning, a pleasant way to wake up. He stretched languidly, like a cat, taking a moment to bask in the early morning rays. Then he followed his nose to the kitchen, where Derek was making breakfast. Eggs and bacon by the smell of it. Stiles walked by him—stealing a piece of cooling bacon as he went and dodging a smack from Derek with a grin—to the cabinet that was kept stocked full of coffee and tea in little Keurig cups. Because why have plain old boring instant coffee when you were a rich werewolf?

"You seem calmer," Derek said as Stiles put in the first coffee pod.

"Sleep'll do that to a guy." Derek huffed a soft sound that might have been a laugh, and Stiles smiled. He leaned back against the counter, watching Derek cook. He looked so _soft,_ dressed in sweats and a soft looking shirt, his hair still mussed from sleep. It was a terribly domestic sight, and made Stiles want to coo at him. He wanted breakfast more, though, so he refrained. "Sorry for freaking out on you. It was kind of a rough day. Not to mentioned unreasonably stressed out over everything is my default setting, so…"

"It's fine." Derek glanced over his shoulder at Stiles. "How are you feeling now?"

"Five by five," he said, and this time Derek did laugh. Stiles beamed at Derek getting his reference for once, already plotting to rope Derek into a Buffy marathon next time they weren't hunting monsters. "So, what's the plan for today?"

"Breakfast. Coffee."

Stiles grinned, at Derek's gruff answer that clearly said 'wake up now, plan things later'. "Not a morning person?"

"Are you?"

"Nah, not normally. But I've gotten a pretty good amount a sleep and now I'm kind of buzzing with energy." Just as he'd anticipated the night before, he was all but vibrating in place, feeling like a livewire. He could almost feel his magic sparking through him like synapses, snapping and ready to be used at a moments notice, should that be necessary. Now that he thought about it, coffee probably wasn't the best idea.

"I can tell. Stop tapping your foot before I hobble you," Derek grouched. Stiles stopped immediately, frowning down at the offending limb. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it.

A few minutes later they were sitting down at the bar for breakfast, Stiles doing most of the talking while Derek gave the occasional gruff to show he was paying attention. Not that it was really necessary as Stiles steamed ahead, full speed.

"I was thinking that this thing probably won't be out during the day, so we could go talk to the other farms that were attacked. I've already read the files on them, which is how I found out about this whole thing in the first place, and there's nothing really substantial in them. Pretty sure as soon as the deputies heard the description, they just stopped listening. Everyone's just convinced it has to be a person." He stopped briefly to roll his eyes. "Which we know isn't true. I already talked to Mr. Rogers, and he couldn't tell me much, but maybe the other farmers could have seen something he didn't.

"After that, we could go check out the preserve, see if we can maybe find it's trail. And, if we're lucky—or extremely unlucky—we might even find wherever it's hiding. Then we can kill it, call it a day, and head home for what will hopefully be an otherwise uneventful summer. I'm really not liking the idea of leaving Beacon Hills for college, because I'm like fifty percent sure that when I come back, the town's just going to be overrun with evil things that go bump in the night—"

"I'm going to go take a shower," Derek said, cutting off his tirade. Stiles blinked owlishly at him for a second, before his brain caught up with him and he got up to clear away the dishes.

"I'll clean up everything," he said, taking everything to the sink. It was only polite, after Derek had cooked.

"Thanks." Derek drifted out of the kitchen, and Stiles' shoulders slumped. The wolf was probably in need of a break after dealing with Stiles and his nonstop motor-mouth. Stiles was getting better about not constantly talking to the point everyone wanted to leave the room just to breathe, but on days like this, it was harder to control. Stiles turned around and started doing the dishes with a little too much vigor, still scowling deeply as he mentally berated himself.

 

Derek came back down fifteen minutes later—which, _how_? it took Stiles that long just to stop thinking and remember he was supposed to be showering, not just standing under the hot spray contemplating life—looking like the stern visage Stiles was used to. While the soft, domestic morning look was sweet and downright cuddlable, this Derek looked like he could kill anything and everything, dressed in tight jeans, a tighter shirt, and heavy boots. It was surprisingly reassuring, reminding Stiles that Derek was a badass alpha werewolf, and that he himself was a pretty damn powerful—unofficial—emissary. Stiles could feel their shared power through the bond, Derek's alpha spark and his own spark of magic pulsing in sync, each anchored by the other.

Seeing Derek also reminded Stiles that he was still wearing the wolf's clothes, looking ruffled and tired for all the energy he had bouncing through him. He sheepishly slunk off towards the bathroom, grabbing his clothes on the way to change. After brushing his teeth with one of the many spare toothbrushes Derek kept around for the pack, he rejoined the wolf by the door.

"Well, I guess we've got work to do," he said with false enthusiasm, following Derek out of the loft. The heavy door slammed closed behind them with an ominous clang.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the Sheriff, Derek was just a damaged adult with ill intentions towards his teenage son.
> 
> “Your father will arrest me for kidnapping you.”
> 
> “No he won’t. He can’t. I’m an adult now.”
> 
> Derek looked up at the house. The light was on in the dining room, shining through the thin curtains. Day was turning into evening and John was sure to be awake still. He could come out at any moment and catch them. It would be foolish to take Stiles with him again.
> 
> He sighed, knowing he had already made up his mind.
> 
> “Go pack a bag.” The look Stiles gave him was so painfully hopeful, tugging at the strings around his heart that tied them  
> together.
> 
> “You’ll still be here when I come back?”
> 
> “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter into 2 parts because this one was getting absurdly long lol

It was a half hour-drive out to the next farm, only a little bit closer to town than Mr. Rogers'. Like Mr. Rogers' farm, it was old, established by settlers during the 1800s. Beacon Hills had sprung up quick during the Gold Rush, people coming in droves with big dreams and delusions of grandeur. Mines were quickly abandoned as many settlers put their resources to farming instead, because while the ground was rich with fertile soil, it was lacking in precious minerals.

Some of the farms surrounding Beacon Hills have traded hands more than once, but the Emerson's were an old family, one of the original families that settled in Beacon Hills all those years ago. Not that they made a big deal of it. The old couple tended to keep to themselves, only coming into town for the farmers market every Thursday to set up a stall, Mrs. Emerson with her beady eyes and weathered face selling produce as Mr. Emerson unloaded it by the crateful, grunting rude dismissals at anyone offering to help.

Heavy silence settled in the jeep as it sputtered its way down the single old road leading out of Beacon Hills. Derek never had much to say, and this morning, neither did Stiles. After the way Derek ran to escape him and his constant rapid-fire speech at breakfast, Stiles was trying to give him some peace.

Keeping the silence was a struggle. Stiles was full of frenetic energy at the best of times, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to relieve some of it. He felt like he wanted to scream, or he would vibrate out of his skin. Derek looked askance at Stiles, his mouth downturned at the corners.

"You don't need to be so nervous.”

"I'm not." Stiles didn't have to look to know what expression Derek was giving him: _don’t lie to a werewolf, it’s rude._ "It's magic stuff, not nerves," he elaborated, hoping Derek didn't catch the half-lie. "Nothing to worry about."

Derek was silent for another mile, and Stiles considered the subject dropped. His eyebrows raised when Derek continued the conversation unexpectedly.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like klaxons blaring before a hurricane.” Stiles worked the leather of the jeep’s steering wheel beneath his fingers, comforted by the familiar grooves that had been worn in over time by his mother’s hands. “That’s the best way I can explain it. Or maybe like I rolled a nat 20 on perception and there’s nothing to perceive,” he said with a short laugh.

“We’re not living in Dungeons and Dragons, Stiles.”

“Sure feels like it sometimes.” Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to smother a smile. Was Derek a secret geek, he wondered? Did he use to sit around a table with his friends or pack, playing DnD? Or was he the DM. _He seems like the type to meticulously plan out a campaign,_ Stiles thought, wondering if he would ever get Derek to play Dungeons and Dragons with him, like his mom used to.

The conversation lapsed into silence again, a natural end to the discussion. Stiles let out a long sigh and relaxed a little bit more into his seat. Here, in broad daylight, with a werewolf at his side and power crackling under his fingertips, he had nothing to fear.

***

It was just past 8am when the blue jeep pulled up on the Emerson's property. Country life started at the crack of dawn, a necessary evil to care for the animals and get the work done before the days heat reached its peak. Stiles had no qualms about marching up to the front door and knocking loudly, enough that they would be able to hear even if they weren’t inside. It only took a minute for the door to be unlocked and pulled open just enough for one bespectacled, beady grey eye to peak through.

“Who are you?” Mrs. Emerson asked, her voice paper thin and scratchy with age.

“Stiles. This is my partner Derek; we’re with the Sheriff’s department.” The lie came easily to Stiles’ lips, having been practiced a dozen times before.

Derek shifted behind Stiles, uncomfortable with the steady beat of his heart. It may have been a white lie, small and technically true, if you looked at it the right way. But there should have been some kind of blip, perhaps undetectable to a polygraph but unmistakable to Derek’s trained senses.

There was nothing. It made him wonder what else Stiles could be lying about.

Stiles could feel the heavy weight of Derek’s stare on the back of his neck, boring into him and making him feel vulnerable; like prey caught in a predator’s tooth-filled maw. He steadfastly ignored it, instead pulling the fake badge out of his back pocket. He didn’t have one for Derek, and he hoped the old woman didn’t ask for one.

“We just had some follow up questions about the attack on your farm the other night. It won’t take long.” That single eye only narrowed at him, glaring at him from behind the door; Mrs. Emerson didn’t say anything. The silence stretched on long enough that Stiles was left fidgeting awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for her answer.

It came in the form of a deeper, scratchier voice.

“Margery, who’s at the door?” Mr. Emerson yelled, voice echoing down the hall and out the crack in the front door.

“They say they’re from the Sheriff’s department.” The door pulled open a few more inches as Mrs. Emerson turned to shout over her shoulder. Stiles peered over the woman, and saw her husband coming towards the door with a grizzled, unpleasant expression.

“What the hell do you want?” Mr. Emerson asked. He squinted up at Stiles, easily a head shorter than him and Derek. Mrs. Emerson sighed heavily, shouldering her husband out of the way.

“Don’t mind Wallace here, he’s not too fond of strangers. Come on in, let’s get this over with.” She swung the door open all the way to reveal the interior of the cluttered house, beckoning Stiles and Derek to follow her.

Derek and Stiles exchanged a look, before Derek stepped in front of him, a buffer between Stiles and Mr. Emerson. The man glared at him, looking like he hadn’t smiled a single time in his life. Derek scowled right back, undeterred, until Mr. Emerson grumbled something nasty under his breath and followed after his wife.

The four of them convened in the living room. Derek’s nose twitched at the musty scent filling the place; it smelled old and stuffy, like an ancient bookstore with poor ventilation. It made him want to sneeze. When he sat down on the couch and tufts of cat hair fluffed up from the cushions, he almost did.

"Now, what would you two gentlemen like to know?" Mrs. Emerson asked once they were all settled, Derek and Stiles sitting across from her.

"We're just coming by to see if you remembered anything about what you saw. Sometimes it can take a few days for the brain to catch up and process everything, especially during such a traumatic experience," Stiles said. He was sitting straight and attentive, the perfect picture of professionalism. It was something Derek didn’t see often. But then, Stiles had never used the ruse of being a deputy in front of him before.

"We didn't see anything," Mr. Emerson said, voice hard and unwelcoming.

"I'm afraid that's true. It was so dark, and we were in bed already when we heard it," Mrs. Emerson said apologetically. “Wallace tried going after it, but by the time he got outside, the thing was already gone.”

"Are you absolutely sure? You may remember more than you think—"

“You think we’re lying to you, boy?” Mr. Emerson barked.

“No, sir.” If Derek hadn’t known Stiles for so long, he wouldn’t have noticed the way he clenched his jaw, expression going hard for a split second as he struggled not to rise to the bait. “I think you don’t realize the capabilities of the human mind. You may have seen more than you think.”

"Where did you say you were from again?" Mr. Emerson rudely interrupted.

"The Sheriff's department," Derek answered, speaking up for the first time. Stiles looked like he was about to let his sarcasm win out over politeness.

Mr. Emerson turned the full force of his glare on Derek, and the wolf didn't so much as flinch, his expression staying impassive, if unimpressed at the attempt to intimidate him. He’d faced down worse than a crotchety old man. Stiles had to bite back a smile when Derek cocked an eyebrow at him, daring Mr. Emerson to challenge him.

"I don't remember seeing either of you before."

"Have you met all of the deputies?" Derek asked, his tone managing to come just shy of polite. Mr. Emerson was seething, his wife trying to calm him with a hand on his arm.

"I want to see your badges," he demanded. Stiles was already halfway to pulling his back out of his pocket, handing it over without thought.

When Mr. Emerson looked at Derek expectantly, all he said was, "I must have left mine in the car.”

Mr. Emerson snatched Stiles' badge out of his hand with more force than strictly necessary—and more speed than Stiles thought him capable of—and scrutinized it. He looked between it and Stiles several times, and the teen realized his mistake when recognition dawned on Mr. Emerson's wrinkled face; the badge had his real name on it. He hadn't thought it would be an issue, only using it for people who didn't already know who he was.

"You're not a deputy, you're that no good son of the Sheriff!" Mr. Emerson stood up angrily, Stiles and Derek doing the same.

"Time to go," he said. Derek grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the door before Mr. Emerson decided to grab a gun and shoot them. "Thank you for your time Mr. and Mrs. Emerson, have a good day."

 

"That went well," Derek said once they were in the jeep. The front door was slammed so loud that even Stiles heard it.

"Ha ha. Don't be a dick," Stiles huffed, starting his jeep. Or trying to, rather, the ancient vehicle stalling out. "Oh, no. No, no, no, come on baby, not now. Fuck!" Stiles threw open the driver side door and got out, moving around the jeep to jerk up the hood and see what's wrong. "Do me a favor and warn me if it sounds like Mr. Emerson is about to come out and shoot me," Stiles called.

"I don't think he will, he knows who your dad is," Derek said, appearing at Stiles' side out of nowhere, startling the teen. Derek crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed by Stiles’ jumpiness.

"Are you kidding me? I'm pretty sure half the town's wanted to shoot me at some point." Stiles turned and caught Derek's half-smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Only kind of?"

"Here, move over." Derek nudged Stiles out of the way, ignoring his indignant look.

"What, and you _do_ know what you're doing?"

"My dad taught me a lot about cars. Body shops are a lot for us to deal with, so we just did everything at home," Derek said, already elbow deep in Roscoe's guts. "I can't stand the smell of oil." In small quantities, like working on Roscoe out in the open, with a gentle breeze to carry the scent away, it was fine. But confined to a mechanics shop, with layers and layers of filthy oil, it was overwhelming.

"Wow. Props to you, Mr. Manly," Stiles joked, leaning against the car. He grinned when Derek paused what he was doing to look up at him with a droll glare.

Derek worked for a few minutes, seeming to not mind the soot staining his hands black-brown, before suddenly tensing up. Seeing Derek stiffen, Stiles did too, looking around uneasily. "What is it?"

"Someone's watching us." The change that came over Derek was mesmerizing. He didn't outwardly shift, but something about him went from calm and casual to _predatory._ It gave Stiles chills that he was sure had nothing to do with magic, activating his prey instincts in the best ways. What he wouldn't give to have Derek chase him down and— _nope,_ definitely not the time for that.

Derek continued to work on the car like he didn't sense anything, giving nothing away, but Stiles knew that the wolf was searching the area for whatever was spying on them. Then he relaxed, like nothing had happened, the aura around him dissipating. It was easier to breathe, now, as though before the atmosphere had become thicker around Derek.

"Dude, that was _awesome,"_ Stiles breathed, slightly aroused and buzzing with questions "Did it leave? Whatever was watching us?"

Derek shook his head, then jerked his chin in the direction of the house. "You might want to go check that out, I'll deal with this." Stiles followed the gesture and saw someone hiding just around the edge of the house; a kid, peering around the corner to watch them.

"Yeah, I'll be right back."

Stiles walked off in the direction of the kid, who darted off around the house before he could get too close. Figuring that the only thing he was risking was getting shot by Mr. Emerson—who hopefully didn't see him sneaking around his property—Stiles followed after the boy until they got to the barn around back. It wasn't very big, housing only a few cows that Stiles could distantly hear lowing out on the pasture.

"Hey," Stiles said with a soft smile, voice friendly. "I saw you watching my friend and I. Don't suppose you know anything about fixing busted up old jeeps?"

The kid, a boy probably around twelve or thirteen, shook his head and returned Stiles' smile with a small one of his own. Then it faded into a different look that Stiles was more than familiar with. He looked scared.

"Were you here the other day, when the farm was attacked?" A nod. "Did you see something?" The boy hesitated, then shook his head frantically. He cowered against the side of the barn, eyes darting around the area like he expected the beast to come out of the shadows at any moment. Stiles crouched down in front of him, trying to make himself smaller and be as non-intimidating as possible.

"Hey, there's nothing to be afraid of. It's just you and me out here right now, okay? Nothing's gonna come for you, I promise." The kid didn't look convinced, not that Stiles really expected him to, but he at least seemed to be less nervous, better about keeping eye-contact. "What's your name?"

"Jessie," the boy said quietly.

"I'm Stiles. It's nice to meet you, Jessie. Now, do you want to tell me what happened here?"

"I-I can't. I don't want to get in trouble."

"You're not going to get in trouble, Jessie."

"I wasn't supposed to be up. My grandparents, they'll be mad if they found out."

"I won't tell them. Promise." Jessie looked like he didn't believe him. Stiles leaned in closer, like he was about to impart a big secret. "Between you and me, I don't think they like me all that much. So whatever you say can stay between us, okay?"

Jessie still looked unsure, and before he could say anything, they both heard Mrs. Emerson calling for him from the back porch. "Jessie Emerson, you get your butt back here and finish your chores!"

"I'm sorry, I have to go—"

"Hey, wait. Here, call me if you remember anything, okay? I'll believe whatever you tell me," Stiles said, taking a notepad out of his pocket that he'd started keeping on him at all times and scribbling down his phone number. Jessie hesitated to take it before running off, leaving Stiles to rake a hand through his hair in frustration. He'd almost gotten the kid to talk.

So far, the day was not going well.

 

Stiles carefully snuck around the house to meet back up with Derek, who was just starting the car. It came to life and Stiles gave a quick cheer, glad that at least one thing was working out for them.

"What did the kid have to say?" Derek asked once they were both settled in the car, Stiles driving down the path that would lead them off the Emerson's property.

"Not much. I'm sure he saw something though, he looked terrified, jumping at shadows. I gave him my cell; hopefully he'll be feeling more talkative soon."

"Hopefully. What now?"

"We go to the next farm, I guess," Stiles said with a shrug. "Mr. and Mrs. Miller, about fifteen minutes away I think. Here, I have the address in my phone, load the GPS." Stiles handed Derek his phone. Before he could do anything with it, the device was ringing, the sound of police sirens filling the car. Stiles snatched back the phone to answer.

"Hey dad, what's up?" he answered.

"I need you to come to the station," John said, sounding angry. "Right now."

"What happened?"

"You have fifteen minutes.” John hung up before Stiles could get a word in edgewise. Stiles looked at his phone, then at Derek, his face washed out and pale. Derek opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever he had been about to say he held back. Stiles stuffed his phone back in his pocket and stepped on the gas, not caring about breaking the speed limit as his jeep rattled down the road, wind whistling through the gaps in the vehicle.

***

They arrived at the Sheriff’s station in just over fifteen minutes, and Stiles wondered what that would mean for him, seeing as his dad hadn’t offered an ultimatum. Inside, Stiles and Derek were greeted with worried looks from several deputies. Tara stopped Stiles and squeezed his arm with a sympathetic smile, saying a quick “good luck, kiddo,” before ushering him onto his dad’s office at the back of the station. Stiles looked over his shoulder at Derek, who just shrugged. He had no idea what's going on either. But there was a tense set to his shoulders and he looked uneasy, like he sensed something Stiles couldn't. It put the teen on edge, because when Derek was uncomfortable, it was usually for good reason.

Putting on a confident air that he didn't feel, Stiles squared his shoulders and wove through the bullpen to the frosted glass door of his father's office. Stiles barely had a chance to open it before he was being dragged inside by the front of his shirt.

He wondered if anyone else heard the low, almost subvocal growl emanating from Derek. No one else reacted, so Stiles figured he was the only one. He wasn’t surprised; ever since he had forced open the conduit to his spark, almost frying his brain in the process, he had been able to hear strange things. Not like the wolves did, he couldn’t hear a conversation from far away, or listen to someone’s heart. But he had become sensitive to the vibrations in the air that came from supernatural sources. Derek’s growl, the beast’s howling.

Stiles didn't need his newfound sense of perception to see how angry his father was; his expression was stormy. The kind of storm that would tear a ship apart and leave no survivors.

Stiles was reminded suddenly of the time he had apprehended Jackson and held him captive in the middle of the preserve, only to be served with a restraining order the next day. That incident had put a strain on his relationship with his father that they had never truly recovered from, made worse because he couldn't just explain what was going on. He would be committed to Eichen House before anyone believed him about Jackson turning into a lizard and being forced to kill people.

Sheriff Stilinski had the good grace to wait until the door was closed, casting a disapproving look at Derek as the wolf stood at Stiles' side, a silent pillar of support. Stiles was grateful to have him there; hopefully his father wouldn't get too angry with him in the presence of someone else.

"I Just got a very troubling call, Stiles," John said, voice strained, like he was trying to remain calm and collected and just barely managing. "Mr. Emerson told me you've been trespassing on his farm, harassing him and his wife about what happened."

"Dad, I can explain—"

"Really? Please, I'd love to hear your explanation of exactly why you did the _complete opposite_ of what I told you to do." John gestured between them; _the floor is yours._ "Go ahead, I'm waiting."

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, clenching his jaw. He glanced over at Derek, whose expression was set in his usual brooding scowl, arms crossed over his broad chest, and didn't say anything. Now was not the time to try and convince his father that monsters were real; he was hanging on by a thread as it was.

But apparently looking at Derek, and therefore bringing attention back to him, was the wrong thing to do. Stiles suddenly wished he had made Derek wait in the car, not wanting to subject the man to his very angry father.

"And you, Hale. What the _hell_ are you doing getting my son into trouble?"

"Dad, it's not Derek's fault," Stiles protested.

"Be quiet, Stiles." John crossed his arms as he faced Derek, looking halfway murderous. For his part, the wolf didn't rise to the challenge in his eyes.

"It was my idea! I just asked Derek to come along. If anything, I'm the one that got _him_ into trouble."

"Hale is an adult fully capable of making his own decisions."

"So am I!"

"No, you're not! Not until you start acting like one, and I don't see that happening anytime soon. I don't care that you're eighteen, you're acting like a delinquent child."

"I was just trying to _help_. You're not getting anywhere on the case—"

"I don't care! You're not a deputy, it's not your place to get involved in my cases!"

"But Derek and I found some leads! We were just following up on them—"

"What leads would those be?"

Stiles felt his face flush in embarrassment at the doubt in his father's tone, like John really believed he wasn't able to find something useful to contribute to the case. Never mind the fact that Stiles had already solved it. But of course, John couldn't know that.

"How do you think your mother would feel if she were here," John said, livid. Stiles reeled, feeling like he'd been struck. That would have been preferable to the venom in his father’s words. John had never brought her up during an argument. It took all the fight out of Stiles immediately, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Dad—"

"Mr. Emerson threatened to press charges for trespassing and harassment. Do you understand how serious this is, Stiles?" Stiles knew by John's pinched expression that he was thinking back to the Jackson incident. His shoulder's fell as he stared at his feet. Behind him, Derek was growling again, a low rumbling that reverberated through the floor and resonated in Stiles' bones. It was grounding, a reminder that someone was still at his back, on his side, and it was the only thing keeping the frustrated tears from falling.

"If that will be all, Sheriff," Derek said, finally speaking up. Stiles heard the door creak open, the hinges in need of oil. The sound was like a gunshot in the sudden silence following Derek’s words. Grateful for the reprieve from his father’s lashing, he turned to shuffle out after Derek, and was stopped before he could make it more than two steps.

"No, that won't be all," John barked, with all the authority of the Sheriff weighing in his voice, demanding they stay where they were. Derek, unlike Stiles, was immune. He’d already been arrested once, after all, his reputation tarnished. What did it matter if the Sheriff yelled at him now, with the whole of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department watching. "I have half a mind to arrest you right now, Hale. I don't want you around my son anymore; God knows why a man your age spends all his time with teenagers. I've let it slide long enough, and clearly that was a mistake." Hurt pierced Stiles chest where he could feel the pack bond, belying the neutral expression Derek wore. This time he knew the pain wasn't his own. 

"Come on, Stiles," Derek said, holding the door open for him. Outwardly, he didn't betray his emotions, his face stony and impassive, but Stiles know his father's words had cut deep. Even worse, the Sheriff wasn't the first to accuse Derek of having less than good intentions towards all of them. But unlike the strangers around town accusing Derek of abusing the pack in whatever way came to mind, Derek held a certain amount of respect for John. He looked up to him. That made his judgement hurt all the worse.

And really, the Sheriff should have known that Derek was the last person that would hurt any of them. Even if he didn’t know about the werewolf business, he was the one that had been there for Derek and Laura when they were young. He was the one that had put together what happened between Derek and Kate.

Stiles couldn't get out of his father's office fast enough, feeling like a kicked dog fleeing with his tail between his legs. Derek was calmer as he followed Stiles, a welcome barrier between him and his father. The Sheriff wasn't done with them, though, standing in the open door to the office.

"You stay away from my son, Hale, or I _will_ find something to charge you with, and this time I'll make sure it sticks!"

"You know where to find me," Derek replied, silence descending over the station. Both at their Sheriff's threat and Derek's cool response. Then Derek put a possessive hand on the back of Stiles' neck, and it was a miracle John didn't have a heart attack from the way the muscle was furiously beating.

Derek urged Stiles outside, hand cupping the nape of his neck firmly. The teen's heart was beating worryingly fast, and Derek wouldn't be surprised if his touch was the only thing keeping him standing. It would have been more effective on one of his beta's, but then Stiles had always been more wolf-like in his mannerisms, ever since being brought into the supernatural world. He leaned into the touch gratefully.

Stiles' heart didn't slow until they were sitting in the jeep. Derek had to release his hold, and now Stiles was holding the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip that made the leather creak, looking like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

"He didn't mean it," Derek offered. Stiles laughed humorlessly, his eyes red and stinging.

"Really? It sure as hell looked like he did." Stiles took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. He started his jeep and pulled out of the sheriff's station parking lot, tires squealing on the asphalt, leaving it in the rearview mirror before his dad decided to follow through on his threat of arresting Derek. Stiles wouldn’t put it past him right now; he’d never seen his father so angry.

Beside him, Derek was sitting tense. Stiles was driving aimlessly, not knowing exactly where he wanted to go, just needing to get away.

"What?" Stiles finally snapped when he caught Derek look at him for the fifth time that minute. Derek had been glancing at him for almost ten minutes now, clearly wanting to say something but not yet broaching the subject. It was grating on Stiles' already-frayed nerves.

"You need to tell you father."

"Oh my god, are you _kidding_ me?"

"That wouldn't have happened if he knew why we were at the Emerson's farm. He's angry because he thinks you're acting out."

"He's pissed because he can't control me anymore, and he knows it. I'm an adult, and he can't stand it, because it means I don't have to do what I'm told," Stiles spat, seething. Derek huffed a frustrated breath, his teeth gritted.

"Your father doesn't want you getting your laundry list of illegal activities added to your permanent record. He can't protect you anymore, don't you get that?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Before, you were just a stupid kid. People are willing to forgive a lot of things. Now you’re an adult, that means you’re going to be held to a higher standard. Your father can't just keep waving off everything you're doing."

"Then it doesn't matter if he knows or not!"

"Yes, it does. If your father knows _why_ you're going looking for trouble, he might be able to do something about it. But right now, he thinks you're just being defiant. How long do you think it will be before he gets fed up with the lying and sneaking around and breaking into places?"

Stiles pulled over abruptly, the jeep skidding loudly to a rough stop on the loose gravel on the side of the road, jolting them both. He turned the jeep off, wrenched the keys out of the ignition, and got out, the door slamming shut behind him. It felt like he was suffocating inside the jeep. He needed to breathe, stretch his legs. He didn’t want to listen to what Derek had to stay. He’d been lectured enough for one day.

Derek didn't give him a choice, getting out as well to follow him down the road.

"Leave me the fuck alone," Stiles said. Derek grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to stop and turn around.

"Stiles, stop it. You're being childish."

"I don't care. And you know what, fuck you. You're not my dad, you have no right to order me around." He shoved Derek away from him, only succeeding in making Derek sway back an inch, which pissed him off even more. "I thought we were passed this phase in our relationship with you pushing me around all the time."

"I'm your alpha," Derek growled, baring his teeth. "And I'm trying to keep you from ruining your relationship with your father."

"Why the fuck do you even care?"

"Because you're being a fucking _idiot_! Do you know what I would give to have a father like yours? I lost my entire family; I'm not going to sit back and watch as you push yours away!"

Stiles' cheeks burned. His father had struck a wound, using his mother against him like that. As if it wasn't humiliating enough to get yelled at in front of Derek, scolded like an insolent child. It was a low blow, cruel. He didn't need Derek guilt-tripping him with what he had lost on top of that.

Something must have changed in his expression or scent, because Derek softened, trying a different tactic. Domineering Alpha rarely worked on him, anyway; Stiles had major problems with authority, for obvious reason. His bruising grip on Stiles’ shoulders fell away.

"Your father loves you," Derek said. "He's just frustrated. He knows your lying to him. You _need_ to tell him."

Stiles crossed his arms, dropped them, raked his hand through his hair, crossed his arms again. "Can we just, not talk about this? We have more important things to focus on."

"I think this is pretty damn important, Stiles."

"Derek, _please._ "

Derek clenched his jaw and, after a long pause, finally relented. He nodded stiffly, backing away from Stiles. He was like a cornered animal right now, and any attempts to force him into talking to his father wouldn't end well. It would be best to let him cool down and come to terms with it on his own, as much as Derek wished he could just strong-arm them into having an actual, transparent, all cards on the table discussion. He hated having to watch from the side-lines as the distance between them grew, both Stilinski’s adding to the wall being steadily built between them.

Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets and began the short walk back to the jeep, already deciding that the last twenty minutes between getting to the station and now didn't matter. By the time they were back in the jeep and beginning the drive back to the last farm, Stiles was successfully bottling up his feelings and ignoring the concerned way Derek looked at him, because fuck him, Stiles was fine. Completely and totally _fine._

***

While the Sheriff’s files didn’t have much on the Millers themselves, Stiles was already somewhat familiar with them. They were semi-knew to Beacon Hills, buying a small property just outside of town from an old farmer looking to downsize. He knew they were kind, much kinder than the Emerson’s had been; Mrs. Miller volunteered for readings at the library for the kids, according to several deputies. The kids all loved when she came in once a week to animatedly read and act out their favorite stories. The same deputies also had it on good authority that Mr. Miller was a good, honest man, always willing to lend a hand if he could. He’d participated in more than one search party, and had been known to pick up hitchhikers looking for a ride into town.

Stiles saw no reason to lie to them, so when Mrs. Miller opened the door, giving him a confused but friendly smile as if she recognized him, but couldn’t place where she knew him from, he introduced himself the way he would to anyone else.

“Hello, Mrs. Miller, I’m Stiles Stilinski,” he said, smiling. Recognition dawned on her and her smile brightened.

“Hello, Stiles, it’s good to finally meet you. How is your father doing?”

“He’s good,” Stiles said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt. “Hard at work on your case, trying to figure out what happened. That’s why I’m here, actually, I’m trying to help him out. Training to be a deputy and all that.”

“Oh, of course. You have your eye set on replacing him as Sheriff one day, young man?”

“Totally. The sooner, the better; it’s about time he retired.” Mrs. Miller laughed softly, having no doubt heard the tales of his attempts to keep his dad healthy, and convince him to take a break from the stresses of his work. Stiles knew from the deputies that she liked to bake for the office at least once a week, which his dad happily partook in, but Stiles couldn’t find it within himself to be angry at her.

“I’m sure you’ll rise through the ranks in no time, kiddo. Who’s your friend here?” She peered over his shoulder to see Derek lurking behind him, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“This is Derek. Don’t mind the scowl, he’s actually a teddy bear.” Stiles could feel Derek’s heavy glare like a hand on the back of his neck, but he knew that with Mrs. Miller watching, Derek wasn’t likely to retaliate. It made his thoughts swirl with mischief. But he tamped that down; they were on a mission. Now was not the time for petty revenge.

“Lovely to meet you, Derek,” Mrs. Miller said, sounding genuine. Her and her husband had been in Beacon Hills less than a year, not long enough to remember the tragedy surrounding Derek and his family. Her eyes were free of pity, something that had become increasingly rare in Derek’s life since he returned to Beacon Hills and made himself known. Knowing that she didn’t know him, didn’t have any judgements about him before he even got a chance to speak, relaxed something in him. Enough that he stood straighter and gave her a shy smile, suddenly wanting to make a good impression.

“Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

“Oh, look at you, so polite. Please, call me Lisa.”

“Lisa,” he corrected. “Do you have time to answer some questions for us? If not, we could come back at a better time.”

“Nonsense, I always have time for handsome boys like yourselves. Come on in.” Lisa opened the door wider and stepped back to allow them in, then led them down the hall after she closed to door behind Derek.

“Dude, you know she’s married, right?” Stiles said under his breath, hanging back a few steps so that Lisa wouldn’t hear his teasing.

“Yes, Stiles, I noticed that from the fact that she is heavily pregnant. If she sneezes too hard, she’ll go into labor,” he added as an afterthought. Stiles snickered, struggling to compose himself as they caught up with her in the living room.

“Please make yourselves at home. I’m going to go find Greg, I’ll be right back.”

 

Mr. Miller was a handsome man, mid-thirties and just starting to grey at the temples, adding a shock of salt to his pepper-black hair. He looked like he was just coming in from doing car repairs, cleaning his filthy hands off on an even filthier scrap of cloth that may have once been a dish towel. His eyes were kind and bright, the corners of his smile hinting at a love of mischief. If the man weren’t already married and standing next to his pregnant wife, Stiles would be all over that silver fox in a heartbeat.

Derek, probably knowing exactly what he was thinking, discreetly punched Stiles in the leg as he stood up and extended his hand to Mr. Miller. “Hello, sir. I’m Derek, and this is Stiles. We were hoping you and your wife would be able to answer some questions about what happened here.”

“Call me Greg, son. ‘Sir’ makes me feel old.” He shook Derek’s hand firmly, impressed by his strong grip. “Lisa already told me what you’re here for. I’m afraid we don’t really have much to say, that we didn’t already tell the police.”

“Anything you can remember would be invaluable,” Stiles said from his place on the couch, rubbing his tender thigh. “Sometimes it takes time for the brain to fully process everything that happened; you may not even realize how much you remember until you start looking for it.”

“Well, we’re up for trying. Just giving you fair warning that you might be disappointed.”

“No problem. Do you mind if we interview you both separately?”

“Not at all. Derek, why don’t you come to the kitchen with me?” Lisa suggested. She stood up, hit with a wave of dizziness from standing too fast. Derek was at her side in a heartbeat, catching her before she fell and injured herself.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, brows knitted in concern, oblivious to Stiles staring at him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Lisa laughed, patting his arm.

“Thank you honey, just a bit of a dizzy spell. I’m alright now.” Derek let go of her, but his hands didn’t return fully to his sides, poised to catch her again if he needed to. He followed after her like a puppy as she made her way to the kitchen.

“Interesting friend you have there,” Greg said, watching the two of them with amusement. Stiles nodded, grinning a bit to himself. It was adorable, the way Derek was so cautious with Lisa, like she was made out of fine china.

“You have no idea.”

 

“Would you like something to drink? Tea, or water?”

“Tea, please,” Derek said, sitting down at the kitchen counter when Lisa shooed him off from trying to help. Three minutes later she was sitting across from him, two mugs steeping in the space between them.

“Whoever decided to call it ‘morning sickness’ was a liar,” Lisa said, sipping her tea. “It strikes any time throughout the day. This helps.”

“My aunt used to make a tea out of fresh ginger and manuka honey when she got sick,” Derek offered, trying to ignore the pain in his heart as he thought about her, and the cousin he’d never gotten the chance to meet. Lisa hummed thoughtfully.

“Interesting, I’ll have to try that. Thank you, Derek.”

“No problem.”

“So, how do you want to do this?” Lisa asked. Derek was at a loss; Stiles had thrown him for a loop by wanting to do this separately. Unlike Stiles, he didn’t make a habit of questioning people, and he didn’t know where to start for an interview like this. Luckily he could hear Stiles talking in the other room, allowing him to follow along with what questions Stiles was asking.

“We can start with you taking me back to that night. What details can you remember?”

“It was late. Maybe ten, eleven o’clock? The baby’s kicking woke me up, and I went out to the kitchen to get a glass of water.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Not yet. It was quiet. That was the strange part; it’s never that quiet out here. Without the noises of the town, you can hear nature; birds, coyote’s. It’s one of the reasons we moved out here. But there was nothing.”

“That is strange,” Derek agreed. He couldn’t remember ever hearing complete silence the way she was describing. “What did you do next?”

“I went to look out the window.” She gestured to the window above the sink, overlooking the back of their property. There were cows out there now, lowing and leisurely grazing through the tall grass. “There wasn’t much light, but I could have sworn I saw something moving out in the field.”

“Was it moving fast?”

“No, not really. At least, it didn’t look like it.”

“Did you go outside to get a better look?” Lisa shook her head.

“I went to wake up Greg.” Lisa’s hands moved to rest on her belly protectively. Derek wondered if she realized she was doing it. “I thought it might have been a bear, and I didn’t want to risk angering it.”

“That’s good, Lisa. You made the right decision. What happened after that?”

“I heard the pigs.” Lisa was pale, looking like she was going to be sick. Derek reached out, laying his hand on the table between them. She took it gratefully, squeezing for all she was worth. “It was _awful_ ,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “They were so loud, it was terrifying, like something out of a horror movie. And I knew that after the other two farms that were attacked, the same thing must have been happening outside. I didn’t want Greg getting hurt, so I went outside, yelling for him to come back. That’s when I saw--”

“What? What did you see?” Derek asked, alert. He could smell the fear coming off of her, choking him. The same way Stiles had smelled when he came to the loft the night before, reeking of terror and unable to explain what he had seen.

“I don’t _know._ I don’t know what—I mean, it isn’t possible.”

“Lisa, you can tell me. I’ll believe whatever you tell me.” She glanced at the door, then pulled her hand away.

“This isn’t the X-Files.”

“No. But whatever you saw, even if you think it’s impossible, may be integral to the investigation. Please, Lisa.”

She worried her bottom lip, looking between Derek in the door. Like she was waiting for someone to walk in, call her insane, drag her away to Eichen House. Derek thought she wouldn’t say anymore, it was a long time before she finally did.

“It attacked Greg. I thought it was going to kill him. It threw him right into the side of the barn, and gave him a concussion. He doesn’t remember any of what happened.” She smiled bitterly. “Lucky him.”

“That thing, whatever it was… it was too big to be a bear. Not even one of those Alaskan Grizzlies. I've never seen anything like it before, and it’s eyes… I don’t know. There was something about them that terrified me. More than any other part of it. The teeth, the claws, the size. It was the _eyes._ I felt there was something there, that it was more than just some kind of mindless beast. Then it left. That’s all I saw.”

“Alright. Thank you, Lisa, you did great.” She gave him a shaky smile.

They didn’t go back out to the living room, Derek could still hear Stiles trying to get information out of Greg. Like Lisa said, he couldn’t remember much about the beast. By the sound of it, she hadn’t volunteered much information either. They sat in silence, drinking their tea, for almost five minutes before Lisa spoke again. Derek had been waiting, hearing the way her pulse beat erratically, smelling of nerves.

“May I ask you a personal question, Derek?” He hesitated, before nodding curtly. “You wouldn’t happen to be Derek as in Derek Hale, would you?”

“Yes. I am.” He assumed she didn’t know who he was because of the way she looked at him. But even now, although her eyes were sad, they were devoid of the usual pity most people had when they looked at him. He relaxed his hand that was hidden under the table, curled into a fist, his claws digging painfully into his palms. It was sharp, giving him something else to focus on other than the loss that was still like a fresh wound, even after all of these years.

“I’m sorry, honey. It was a terrible thing that happened. And I didn’t mean to pry, really. But the sheriff’s department, they talk, you know?”

“Do you spend a lot of time there?” Derek asked, if only to divert attention from him.

“I bake for them sometimes. Often enough that I know the deputies.” Lisa looked at him strangely, giving him a soft smile. “Which is how I know you’re not one of them. And neither is Stiles; his father is always so proud to say how Stiles wants to join the FBI, not stay here and be the next sheriff.”

“Why did you let us in, if you know we’re not deputies, then?” Derek asked, feeling cold. Like this was a trap. Lisa had seemed nothing but a kind mother-to-be, with a soft presence and gentle air about her. Harmless. But then, Derek had thought that before, and it resulted in the deaths of his family.

“I can see that you’re good boys, you want to help. And that thing that attacked us… well. John Stilinski is a good man, but he’s looking for a human. And this thing wasn’t.”

“You think we have a better chance of finding the real killer,” Derek surmised.

“Yes. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t think I want to know. But something tells me you boys might just be able to do something about it before it hurts anyone else.”

“We’re going to try,” Derek promised. Lisa smiled, and surprised him by coming around the bar to wrap him in a hug. He stiffened uncomfortably, unsure how to react. She just pet his hair and slowly, he wrapped his arms around her middle, barely touching, terrified of hurting her or her baby with his clumsiness. Derek didn’t know how to be gentle.

“You’re a good man, Derek Hale.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“No. But I know I’m right.” Derek felt tears prick his eyes. Her heart was steady, genuine. He hid his face against her shoulder, her scent soothing. She smelled like sunshine and nature, and it made him miss his mother, the pain hitting him suddenly. It had been so long since someone hugged him like this, comforting him, rather than expecting him to be strong.

Derek nuzzled her shoulder softly. He didn’t even realize Stiles was standing in the doorway until he cleared his throat, frowning at Derek. Reluctantly he pulled away, and they were joined by Greg a moment later. By then there was already three feet of space between Derek and Lisa, giving no sign as to Derek’s moment of weakness.

“You guys done here?” Stiles asked.

Derek nodded once, sharply. To Lisa, he said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Miller.”

“Thank you boys for coming buy. Good luck on cracking this case.”

“We’ll let you know if we make any progress,” Stiles offered, turning to leave. Derek didn’t follow. His attention was drawn to the barn he could just barely see through the window, and the pig pens hiding just around the corner. They were destroyed, broken wood flung everywhere from the careless beast.

“Would you mind if we took a look out back before we go?” Derek asked, nodding towards the window.

“Not at all, go right ahead.”

“Thanks.”

There was a door in the kitchen going straight out the back. Derek walked through, Stiles rushing to follow .

“What, what is it? Did you see something?” Stiles asked when he caught up to Derek’s purposeful strides.

“No, but I think I might be able to catch a scent.” The Emerson’s farm had been cleaned and repaired before they got there, leaving nothing to find. Derek suspected Mr. Miller was more concerned with taking care of his heavily pregnant wife than repairing a few pens that had nothing to house. The lack of human tampering meant that the scent could still be lingering; Derek hoped that for their sake it was.

The pair disappeared around the corner of the barn, Derek almost choking on the heavy scent of shit and death weighing down the air. There was no breeze to carry it away, leaving it to stay concentrated over the wet earth, a humid pocket in the shade. The blood was the strongest scent, and Derek struggled to breathe past everything. Stiles didn’t seem bothered. Derek couldn’t tell if it was because the smell wasn’t so strong to his human nose, or if he was just used to it. He doubted it was the latter; Stiles would never be caught dead working on a farm long enough to get used to it.

“Getting anything?” Stiles asked, searching around the edges of the pens, looking for any trace of the beast that he would be able to pick up, any identifier. Hair, a tooth, anything that would give them a clue. Derek just shook his head, trying not to breathe deeply.

“Nothing. It’s strange. Like the thing was never here.”

“Do you think it has some way of cloaking itself?” Stiles asked, a shudder running down his spine. He didn’t want to think about what it would mean if a beast that big had such a deadly skill.

“I hope not.” Derek toed at a fallen post, smashed to pieces in the creature’s rage to tear apart the pigs. At least the bodies had been taken care of. “Let’s go.”

 

Mrs. Miller caught them on their way towards Stiles’ jeep, waddling out the front door the way pregnant women do. “Wait!” she called from the porch. She was smiling when Derek and Stiles turned to face her, gesturing for them to come back.

“I just put a pie in the oven. Why don’t you boys stay a while, so I can send it home with you.”

“You don’t have to—” Stiles began, only to be cut off by Derek.

“Okay.”

“Dude, who _are_ you?” Stiles asked as they began walking back to the house.

“I like pie,” Derek defended. They both knew that wasn’t the reason he accepted the offer, though. But Derek wasn’t ready to open up. “It’s apple, too.” He could smell it wafting out of the house, mouthwateringly tempting.

“Well in _that_ case,” Stiles said, grinning. It was cute the way Derek seemed eager to please, doing what Mrs. Miller told him like a puppy.

“The pie will be ready in about an hour,” Mrs. Miller told them.

“Thank you,” Derek said, glancing bashfully between his feet when she put her hand on his shoulder, leading them into the house.

They all convened in the kitchen where Greg was washing the dishes. He smiled brightly at his wife, bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek when she walked over to join him at the sink to dry. The kitchen was permeated with the scent of baking apples and cinnamon and love.

Derek was choking on it.

It forced him to remember days he’d spent like this with his own family, back when they had all been happy. He had loved to bake. Peter too, and grandma Hale. It was something the three of them would gather to do, taking out the old Hale family recipe box, passed down through the generations, and try their hands at the ancient dishes.

Derek would give anything to have that back again. But the recipe box had been burnt to nothing along with his family. He hadn’t cooked more than simple, dull meals since the fire.

Beside him, Stiles put a hand on his forearm and softly asked, “Are you okay?” during a lull in his conversation with the Millers. Derek nodded stiffly. If Stiles knew he was lying, he didn’t say anything about it. He lifted his hand to brush over the nape of Derek’s neck, the gesture passed off as straightening his collar, before letting it fall. It was a small gesture, but comforting. More so than it had any right to be.

“I could try fixing your pens, if you want,” Derek abruptly offered, suddenly needing to be out of the kitchen before the walls closed in on him anymore. Mr. and Mrs. Miller looked at him with twin expressions of polite confusion.

“Are you sure? I mean, that would be a great help to us, but you absolutely don’t have to,” Mr. Miller said.

“I want to.”

“Alright then. If you’re sure you don’t mind.” Finished with the last of the few dishes from Mrs. Miller’s pie, Mr. Miller dried off his hands and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the door. “C’mon, I’ll show you where everything is.” Derek followed silently, leaving Stiles in the kitchen with Mrs. Miller and no idea why Derek was suddenly fleeing.

“I hope he’s alright,” Lisa said, straightening the dishcloth hanging on the oven’s handle.

“I’m sure he is. I better go keep an eye on him, though.”

“You do that, honey. I’ll call you both back when the pie is ready.”

“It’s already smells delicious, ma’am. I’m sure we’ll be summoned back by our noses in no time.” She laughed, shooing him off with her hands.

“You go take care of your boyfriend, I’ll see you in a bit.” All at once Stiles felt his face heating, his mouth opening and closing with no idea what to say.

“Oh no, we’re not—I mean, he’s just my partner?”

“Ah, of course. My mistake.” There was a twinkle in her eyes and a knowing smile playing at the corner of her mouth that Stiles didn’t want to read into. He did, however, want to know what he and Derek were doing that made them come across as a couple. He beat a hasty retreat outside and left that question for another time.

 

Stiles ran into Mr. Miller on his way outside, the older man clapping him on the back firmly enough for Stiles to feel the strength in his hands. “Your friend is quite the handy one,” he complimented. “I’d definitely want to keep that one around.”

“That’s the plan, sir,” Stiles laughed, cheeks still warm from Mrs. Miller’s comment. With the assessing way Mr. Miller looked at Stiles, he was sure the man was thinking the same thing as his wife; that he and Derek were together. Stiles supposed that was better than the stereotypical small-town homophobia that they could have just as easily exhibited.

 

When Stiles reached Derek, he shrugged off his flannel and draped it over a still-standing post, taking a moment to admire the planes of Derek’s back as he worked. He was crouched down, tight jeans cupping his ass as he straightened out a post, driving it into the ground with a mallet. Stiles had to bite back a sigh at the way his t-shirt pulled taught over firm muscles. Luckily, the smell of the pig pens would probably cover the scent of desire that was probably wafting off of him. What he wouldn’t give to get up in that….

Stiles tore his eyes away from Derek and went searching for the tools he would need for repairing the low fence. When he turned back to face Derek at the sudden lack of hammering, he found the wolf watching him with both eyebrows raised.

“What?” Stiles asked defensively.

“Try not to hurt yourself.” Stiles looked down at the hammer and jar of nails in his hands, scowling.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ve been fixing fences since I was old enough to follow directions.”

“So never, then.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m excellent at following directions when I want to. And I’m awesome at fixing fences.” Derek still looked dubious, but Stiles figured his heartbeat was steady enough for Derek to believe him.

Ten minutes later Stiles had finished one section of fence and Derek was reluctantly impressed that it was straight, functional, and Stiles still had all of his fingers intact. Apparently, he _did_ know what he was doing. Together, they would have the pens finished in no time.

 

“So,” Stiles drawled, stretching the word out. “You can fix a busted up jeep and apparently repair fences. You’re just really good with your hands, aren’t you, big guy?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and was half-surprised he didn’t receive a hammer in the teeth for his effort.

“They’re good for strangling.” Stiles snorted at his nonchalant tone.

“Kinky.”

Derek continued working quietly, ignoring Stiles. For once he took the hint, going back to his own task. It was simple work, made grueling by the unforgiving summer sun beating down on them, the day’s temperature slowly rising until it finally peaked. After an hour, Stiles was seriously considering stripping off his shirt, the thing already damp with sweat and clinging uncomfortably to his sticky skin, pulling against him with every movement.

Across from him a few yards away, Derek didn’t even seem to notice the heat, working with a kind of steadfast determination that Stiles admired.

“How are you doing?” Derek asked suddenly, startling Stiles into almost dropping his hammer.

“Uh, good? My side’s almost finished.” Derek gave him a pointed look, his eyebrows raised, and Stiles wasn’t sure what he was getting at until he clarified,

“I meant do you feel calmer.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. I guess I do, actually.” Stiles looked down at his hands like he hadn’t seen them before, and was struck with the realization that it no longer felt like jumper cables were attached to his fingers. “I think I’ve got everything under control. Huh.” There was something to be said for mindless, repetitive work. Even if Stiles did feel like he was slowly baking to death under the midday sun.

“Good.”

“What about you?”

“Me.”

“Yeah. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Derek glowered at the frustrated look Stiles gave him, eyebrows a dark furrow above his pale eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“ _Really_ sure?”

“What is this about, Stiles?”

“I dunno. You’ve just been… weird. With Mrs. Miller.” Derek looked away, jaw clenched, and Stiles thought that would be the end of the conversation. Whatever was going on with him. Stiles had clearly hit a sore spot. Derek surprised him by continuing.

“She reminds me of someone. My aunt,” he said stiffly, staring at the muddy ground. He sounded flat, devoid of emotion, forcing it out of his voice. Stiles’ heart fell. He wanted to hug Derek. Would have gotten up and gone over to do just that, if he didn’t know how it would be received. Derek had never been one for outright physical displays of affection.

“I’m sorry, Derek. I didn’t know.” He wished he could take back all of his stupid teasing, now that he knew how much pain Derek probably felt, being reminded of his family. “Was she your mom and Peter’s sister…?”

“Peter’s wife.” Derek started working again, hammering a post into the ground harder than was necessary, almost splintering the wood under the force. “She was pregnant when she died.” Stiles stared at Derek, eyes wide in horror.

“Jesus, Derek.” It was no surprise Peter had gone as insane as he had. Stiles would have to, if he’d lost his wife and unborn child, and the rest of his family. Maybe that was why Derek was so lenient on him now that he’d come back from the dead.

“Doesn’t matter. It was almost a decade ago, now.”

Stiles knew first hand that pain like that didn’t ever go away, and he’d only lost his mother. He couldn’t imagine the scale of what Derek faced every day. But he could respect not wanting to talk about it; he wouldn’t push. But when he got up and went to get more nails, he put a hand on Derek’s shoulder as he passed, squeezing firmly. Derek caught his hand and held it there for a moment, taking a deep breath. He released Stiles’ hand as he sighed, features as cold as marble as he continued to work. When Stiles came back and did it again, brushing his hand over the nape of Derek’s neck the way he did to his betas, Derek’s shoulders had lost some of the tension.

 

Later, Derek perked up like a dog hearing a squirrel, and suddenly straightened. He mopped the sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt, and Stiles tried not to drool as his washboard abs were revealed. Then he saw Mrs. Miller approaching with two glasses of lemonade, and figured Derek had probably heard her coming the second she stepped out the door.

“Thank you,” Derek said as he accepted the lemonade, drinking half the glass in one gulp, much to Mrs. Miller’s amusement. Behind him Stiles was standing up, accompanied by the sound of popping joints.

“Like I’m made out of glow-stick fluid, man,” the teen said, shaking his sore arms out. He took the lemonade from Mrs. Miller with a grateful smile and drank it down fast, panting when he was done.

“You poor thing,” Mrs. Miller said, laughing. Stiles grinned sheepishly and Derek just rolled his eyes, thrusting his glass into Stiles’ hand for him to finish off the rest. He did, just as eagerly as the first.

“You guys have gotten things fixed up fast,” she said, looking around, impressed at their quick work. They were just about finished, with only another 3 sections of fence left to repair. Derek gave her a small smile, quietly preening. “Pie’s out of the oven. Come on in whenever you’re ready. And thank you so much for doing this.” Derek could smell it cooling on the windowsill. It smelled like autumn afternoons when they got back from the apple orchard, young Derek carrying a big bushel of granny smiths all on his own

“No problem,” Derek and Stiles said together. Mrs. Miller laughed again, looking suspiciously like she wanted to pinch their cheeks and call them adorable. Stiles took half a step back just in case.

 

When they finished, both of them filthy, they met Mr. and Mrs. Miller back inside. Despite how dirty they were she still hugged both of them, Derek just as careful about her belly as before and letting his arms linger around her waist just a second longer. She ruffled his hair - soft, with the product sweated out of it - and sent them on their way.

Somehow Derek ended up with the keys, and Stiles was too tired to protest letting him drive his baby. By the time Stiles realized he should have, it was too late.

 

“Um, dude,” Stiles began, looking around apprehensively. “This isn’t how we get back to your place.”

“No,” Derek agreed. “It’s how we get to yours.”

“I’m not going back home.”

“Yes you are.”

“ _Derek._ Don’t pull you alpha shit on me right now.” Derek glanced at Stiles from the corner of his eye, jaw tense. Stiles looked furious, but Derek wasn’t going to give.

“You need to talk to your father.”

“No I don’t. I _need_ to find out what this monster is. _That_ is what we should be dealing with, not my family drama.”

Derek pulled into the driveway, and Stiles’ heart rate sped up when he saw his dad’s cruiser parked in the driveway. The acrid scent of his fear had Derek breathing through his mouth to avoid it.

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I don’t need to avoid him forever. Just until we solve this case and kill the beast.”

“Get out, Stiles.”

“ _Derek please.”_

The desperate tone of Stiles’ voice forced Derek to finally turn and face him. He was pale, heart beating a rapid tattoo at his throat. Derek’s heart clenched at the thought of leaving Stiles alone to what was sure to be another argument, the Sheriff thinking he had run off to do whatever he wanted yet again. But he also knew that his presence would only make things worse. John would think Derek was the one whisking Stiles away into trouble. It wouldn’t even cross the man’s mind that he and Stiles were equals. There was no power imbalance between them. He was the alpha, and Stiles was his emissary, powerful in his own right. Not like the beta’s, whose instinct was to obey his commands, even when they fought against it.

To the Sheriff, Derek was just a damaged adult with ill intentions towards his teenage son.

“Your father will arrest me for kidnapping you.”

“No he won’t. He can’t. I’m an adult now.”

Derek looked up at the house. The light was on in the dining room, shining through the thin curtains. Day was turning into evening and John was sure to be awake still. He could come out at any moment and catch them. It would be foolish to take Stiles with him again.

He sighed, knowing he had already made up his mind.

“Go pack a bag.” The look Stiles gave him was so painfully hopeful, tugging at the strings around his heart that tied them together.

“You’ll still be here when I come back?”

“Yes.”

Stiles opened the door, and hesitated. He gave Derek one last look, to confirm he was telling the truth, before getting out and sneaking around the house.

 

Climbing in through his bedroom window wasn’t as easy as the werewolves all made it look. Stiles was sure his dad would have heard him trying to get onto the roof half a dozen times at least, but every time he paused with his heart beating in his throat, he never once heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Ten minutes later, he was carefully climbing back down to the ground and sprinting back to the jeep, hoping none of his neighbors saw him sneaking into his own room and reported it to his dad. With his luck, they would think he was trying to run away.

Stiles threw his duffle bag into the backseat before climbing upfront, giving Derek a strange look.

“I’m kind of surprised you’re still here,” Stiles said. He’d half expected Derek to take off running. But there he was, sitting patiently in the driver’s seat, keeping an eye on the front door for any sign of the Sheriff. He didn’t look away as he answered.

“I said I’d stay.”

“Yeah you did, big guy. Thank you. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

The window beside the front door showed signs of movement, the curtain fluttering at the side. Derek didn’t wait for the Sheriff to come outside, backing out of the driveway and taking off down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did this chapter feel dragging to anyone else? seriously, it was a struggle to write, and idek why. but fear not, things will be picking up soon! feel free to drop a comment and give me that sweet, sweet validation.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt I read on @thisdiscontentedwinter's blog a few months ago, that I fell in love with. She said she wanted 90k of it, probably joking, but ask and ye shall receive! This is my most ambition project so far, I'm going to try and write 90k on this little 3 sentence prompt. We'll see how it goes. Anyone who's seen my rants about it on tumblr knows that I have some Serious Things planned for this fic, and I hope you guys enjoy! I've been working on it since about May, I think, so I've got a lot written already, and I'd love to read any theories on what you think may happen!
> 
> Also yes, the rating will go up ;) and tags will be added. I suck at tagging, so please feel free to suggest any at any point!


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